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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505857">One forgives to the degree that he loves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own'>I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suilad Aran Thranduil [44]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Discussion of Canon Events, Doriath, Dwarves, kind of, the angst, why do I always manage to hurt my heart when I write?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:21:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,579</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas announces his friendship with Gimli to his father, it does not go as intended</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Suilad Aran Thranduil [44]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/65456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>One forgives to the degree that he loves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Don't even ask me where this came from. I've been struggling with writer's block for weeks, so this was a nice surprise.</p><p>Title is a quote by Francois de La Rochefoucauld</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>
    <em>I was angry with my friend;</em>
    <br/>
    <em>I told my wrath, my wrath did end.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>I was angry with my foe:</em>
    <br/>
    <em>I told it not, my wrath did grow.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>And I waterd it in fears,</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Night &amp; morning with my tears:</em>
    <br/>
    <em>And I sunned it with smiles,</em>
    <br/>
    <em>And with soft deceitful wiles.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>And it grew both day and night.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Till it bore an apple bright.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>And my foe beheld it shine,</em>
    <br/>
    <em>And he knew that it was mine.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>And into my garden stole,</em>
    <br/>
    <em>When the night had veild the pole;</em>
    <br/>
    <em>In the morning glad I see;</em>
    <br/>
    <em>My foe outstretched beneath the tree.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>~<strong>A Poison Tree, William Blake</strong></em>
  </p>
</div><hr/><p></p><div>
  <p>Loss, he learnt at a very young age, is looking everywhere for someone and always finding them, but knowing they’re not really there. Loss is thinking of people who aren’t with you and can never be again. It’s imagining what they would say, what they would do, if they could see you in that moment. It’s forgetting, for just a few bittersweet moments that they’re gone. It’s excitedly turning to tell them something and realizing they aren’t there; they will never be there. It’s the crushing weight in your chest that refuses to lift and the lump in your throat that will not be moved. It’s a great feeling of-of <em>loss</em>, of not knowing or understanding where to go or what to do, what way is up and what way is down.</p>
  <p>He learnt the meaning of loss a long time ago when the world was still young and he’d still thought his dreams could become something real.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>Hatred, he learnt at a young age, is a burning, terrifying inferno in your mind and in your chest that threatens to eat you whole if you’d just let it. Hatred is an anger so strong it lodges in your throat and you choke on it. Hatred is despising someone or something so much you can’t imagine anything you wouldn’t do to destroy them. Hatred is this dark, ugly, festering wound inside you that you don’t <em>want </em>to heal. Like all fire, hatred needs oxygen to grow, and you’re more than willing to give it all the air it needs. Hatred is obsession wrapped in rage. It’s the thing you cling to so tightly to never have to deal with the pain, the trauma, that generated the hatred in the first place.</p>
  <p>He learnt the meaning of hatred a long time ago, when the world was still young and he’d thought death was something made up to scare children (elves couldn’t actually <em>die, </em>right?)</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>Greed, he learnt at a young age, is a chaotic, destructive force that knows no boundaries and no mercy. Greed is a fungus that grows and grows and never stops until it runs out of food, but it doesn’t die, it just waits. Greed is caring only about your needs and your desires and to the Void with everyone and anyone else.</p>
  <p>He learnt the meaning of greed a long time ago, when the world was still young and he’d still thought that he’d never find someone whose happiness was worth more than his own.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>Dwarves don’t live as long as elves do, he’s been reminded countlessly since that day, all those thousands of years ago. Dwarves don’t live as long as elves do, the dwarves who took his mother from him, took his cousins from him, took his king and his queen and his <em>home </em>from him are long since dead. Their flesh rotted, a feast for the carrion beasts, and their bones turning back into the stone their forefathers were carved from (and curse Aulë for that, anyway). The dwarves who first taught him of loss, who first taught him of hatred, who first taught him of greed are long since dead and entombed and yet, their lessons live on in him.</p>
  <p>Perhaps, had Melian gotten to teaching him of the Forgiveness of Estë, and the good it could do for the heart, the mind, and the soul, perhaps he would have let the matter rest millennia ago. But Melian had only just gotten through teaching him of the Strength of Tulkus, and they were to begin on the Youth of Vana next. (He hadn’t learnt the Mercy of Nienna then, yet, either). He had not yet understood forgiveness, not in the way he’d have needed to in order to forgive what happened in Doriath. So, instead hatred grew. Hatred, he knew, belonged to Melkor, but his father had always said that you don’t have to like someone to agree with them, so, he let his hatred grow.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>Hatred, festering and growing, <em>flourishing</em>, for year upon year upon year for <em>thousands </em>of years.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>Then his son brings home a dwarf, that the boy claims as friend and brother. The hatred that’s been festering for thousands of years suddenly buckles under the weight of the surprise betrayal that brings his immense loss, hidden and locked away for just as long, rushing to the surface. He has a moment of incoherent panic, where he feels his heart lurch in his chest and he tries to breathe and can’t draw air in around the hatred and loss waring for dominance in his throat. His hatred wants to scream, but his loss wants to cry and he can’t breathe around either. He reaches a trembling hand to his chest, where his heart has decided to set itself on fire rather than deal with the stress a single second longer and he doesn’t fight the darkness that suddenly rushes forward to claim him.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p>He wakes in his own bed, fatigue clinging to him like a second skin as he struggles to move, to shift his head so he can look at something other than the ceiling above him. He hasn’t been this incapacitated since the Dragonfire that stole more than just his perfect vision from him.</p>
  <p>“Ada?”</p>
  <p>His mind is shrouded in a thick fog as he processes the sudden noise that intrudes upon him. Legolas is… out being reckless and far too honourable for his own good. He can’t be here.</p>
  <p>“Ada?”</p>
  <p>Legolas is off risking his life for the good of all Arda, when Thranduil would be content to let it all burn to the bloody ground. If time has taught him anything, it’s that there will always be another war, another battle to fight, another person to lose, another thing to hate, another desire coveted above all others.</p>
  <p>(Burn Arda and burn the Valar along with it.)</p>
  <p>“Ada?”</p>
  <p>Finally, he loses his patience and finds the strength to turn his head, finds his beautiful, reckless, foolish child sitting in a chair across from him, a worried, guilty, <em>desperate </em>look on his face. His precious face that Thranduil hasn’t seen in months. Months and months of never-ending war and somehow Legolas has come back to him, but not alone.</p>
  <p>
    <em>“This is Gimli, he is my friend and Shield Brother.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>The memory comes unbidden and sends a stab of agony and betrayal shooting through his heart, he can’t help the gasp that wrenches from his lips, as his eyes flutter shut in shock.</p>
  <p>“Ada!”</p>
  <p>For one, very brief, moment, he considers sending his son away, pretending he has no son, but just as quickly as the thought comes, it’s immediately pushed aside. <em>Nothing </em>is more important than Legolas.</p>
  <p>After thousands of years, he finally puts his hatred aside. His darling Lalaithiel had finally taught him of the Forgiveness of Estë before they had married, but even she had not dared to challenge the hatred he held especial for the dwarves. Yet now, for his son, he will set aside his hatred for dead dwarves, the way he did for Thorin Oakenshield. He will forgive the dwarves for the loss of his mother, in order to keep his son.</p>
  <p>It doesn’t make him feel better. Doesn’t take away the harrowing loss he still feels six thousand years later. He was so young when she died that her loss shaped him and forgiving her murderers doesn’t suddenly take that pain away, doesn’t take any of it away. He feels <em>lighter, </em>because it is an immense burden to hate every single second of every single day, but he does not feel <em>better. </em>He has forgiven, but he will <em>never forget. </em>Dwarves took his mother, his cousins, his king, his queen, and his home from him, he will never forget that.</p>
  <p>“Ada?”</p>
  <p>“I’m alright.” He whispers, breathing deeply and slowly opening his eyes to see the terror in his son’s. “I’m fine.” He promises, reaching forward to capture his son’s hand in his own, squeezing it tightly. “Tell me about your dwarf.”</p>
  <p>“Ada-“</p>
  <p>“Legolas.”</p>
  <p>“Fine.” His son huffs but launches into a step by step account of how he met his dwarf and the journey that finally bought them back to Thranduil’s throne room. Thranduil listens without comment and without judgement, he promises to give Gimli a chance and he does.</p>
  <p>He forgives, but whenever he sees a dwarf, Gimli included, he thinks of his mother and her body splayed out on the floor in her own blood, a dwarven axe through her chest. He thinks of Doriath and the bodies littering the halls. He thinks of his cousin, Thingol, his king who was cut down in the name of greed by dwarven axes. He thinks of Melian, his enchanting mentor, his queen, who fled her kingdom to retreat into her heartbreak.</p>
  <p>He forgives, but he never forgets.</p>
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